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shattered vessel, now tearing his hair, and anon extending hw clenched list towards us in »iun menacing and detestation, i reversed as liis ship had been in every direction by our bills, site was rapidly sinking: and just as she was finally settling down, some of her crew sought shelter ill lier lops, whiledtliors plunged into the sea, and swam towards us. Alas! tlie case of those who st'il cling to the masts of their sinking ship was not a jot more hope less than that of the unhappy men w ho looked for safe!v in the mercy ol Stamar. bceing that they swam vigorously and persevering y towards us, he shouted, “Snoot me u.fa ,ow of those jollv follows. Wort Dicu ! they seein marvellously well inclined to aid in the consumption of our grog and biscuit. I ake irool aim. 1 sav, tlierc, some of you, and shoot mo tnein oil! llis orders were obeye Ito tlie very letter. Shot followe I shot in quick succession, and man afn r man foil bcncatii the murderous aim of the ferocious pirates. Now and then a cap or a straw Hat rose to lhe surface, and floated round the shattered vessel which the foaming waves were now fast cngulphing. Suddenly, with a sound like the rushing of a huge water-spout, an immense cl warn opened in the waves, the merchantman balanced her self for a moment or two and tlien, with one lightning like bound, descended ; tlie tops o( lie. - masts were for an instant seen lashing the waters, and tlien she and the unhappy wretches, who were clinging to her, disappear ed for ever. To the tumult of tlie horrible scene that had been enacted there succeeded for a lew moments a frightful expressive si lence, which was broken by the voice of Sta mar, who in tones of infernal irony exclaimed “ Adieu ! a pleasant voyage to you !” From rh<r Southern Literary Messenger. THE FOErS DESTINY. BV A YOUNG LA in', A NATIVE OF VIRGINIA. CHAPTER t. A cloud swept o’er the lover’s face, As he stood before me now ; A scornful smile was on his lip, A shadow on his brow. Two years of exile passed away, and Ernest Gordon was again in England. Time and change hud wrought their usual work, and calnud the tumult of feelings which nothing could entirely subdue. Tnough his brow wore no longer its deep sadness, yet it was shaded still; and it may be, th;i#lhe memory of some early sorrow urged him to flee from the gaieties of the metropolis, and seek the solitude of nis childhood's home. There, ho could be alo.ie with his own thoughts. Society no lon ger charmed h rn ; and scrutinizing the ft ivoli ties oiThe world, he had learned to shun and pitv those wiio loved him. Books were now liis companion ; and son'Climes, in his bitter ness ot soul, he doomed them the only friends Wiio never altered or bet rayed. It is a sad period in life, when such feelings crowd upon us ; when the beauty seems taken from our future, and the light gone from our path-way. Gloom like this was on Ernest, as he wa idered through the old familiar haunts of uis boyish days—and he pondered on those days as the only happy period ho had ever known ; forgetting that many hopes brightened over him still, that tio en of existence is with out its blessings, and that none can be really unhappy while there is good remaining to be done on earth. How few, in such mournful meditations, perceive that the change is not in t.ie scene aud objects around them, but in t lemselvos ; that the blight lias fallen, not on their prospects, but on the withering flowers of their own hearts. Tne stars are always in Heaven, and the darkness which shuts them from us, is around ourselves. It was early on a summer afternoon that Ernest was seated in the library, whose trea sures h id so often contributed to the consola tion of liis lonliest hours. The windows of tlie room were open, and the soft breeze sighed through the curtained casements ; repose res ted like a mantle on all, aud its influence fell on Ernest also. Uis eyes were fixed on the page before him, but his thoughts had roamed far away to the records of the past. Tnrowing aside the learned volume, he took a pamphlet from the table and carlessly opened it. While lie glanced at its contents, a change cainc over h:s countenance, as if the lava of years had been suddenly removed from the world of his memory. Tlie lines he looked on were addressed to the writer’s “only friend,” and wore these : “ I will not forget thee ! the links of the past, They are clinging around me yet; And the thoughts which connected my spirit with thine Are such the heart cannot forget. They are lingering near me in tenderness still, Unstained by tlie touch of decay, And are brighteu'd by gloom, as stars shine at night Which lose all their lustre by day. I will not forget thee 1 100 many blight hopes Are gathered around thy dear name, For with aecenta of kindness thou grecteet me oft. When others spoke only to blame. The memory comes like a breath of the south, With fragrance and loveliness fiaught; For communion with thee, was hallow’d bv love, And chasten’d by beauty of thought.” Ernest’s conscience smote him for his for gelf i Iness, as he rend tne verses addressed to himself and signed with the name of Walter Vere Since their parting, these friends had lieard nothing of each other—for Walter, with that peculiar reserve which generally forms a feature of an imaginative diameter, had said nothing of his plans or destination ; uud Er nest, in the selfishness of his individual disap. pointmciits, after the lapse of a few mouths’ absence, had rarely thought of his youthful companion. Perhaps he may be forgiven this neglect, by those who feel that the memory of ch'hiish friendship is often lost in the engross- ment of u dee|icr passion. But now, when the variety and distraction of travel had passed away, and he was once more enjoying the quiet of home, Gordon’s interest in his friend returned with redoubled ardor, and tie dwelt with tiie teuderest affection on the£proud und w i -olive du«j>osition of die gifted poet. Entirefv ig< orant of Waller’s residence, Kr. wro'e to H r Geffrey Kucher inquiring t,,- « ; f>r !•* bad resolved to compensate by t ' i a,el attention, list past neglect and suspension of their intercourse. A few days brought the wishe J-for information, and Ernest despatched a note to his friend. “ Once more, dear Walter,” he said, “ my wanderings are ended, and again I am among the tranquil beauties of borne. This place re calls the happy hours we have passed here, and in roaming through its familiar scenes, I j can scarcely realize that years have fled since we enjoyed them together. Will you not come to me, Walter? The sight of long for gotten things will impart to you anew inspi | ration —and communion with your earliest friend, will blot out the memory of sorrows ! we both have known too well. Do not deny me, Walter ; 1 have so much, so very much ;to tell you, which I cannot write. Moreover, I long to learn your prospects and hopes ; they were confided to me so openly once, that I cannot relinquish tlie pleasure of a renewal of vour confidence. lam here alone, and the thought of having you for a companion, has given me a taste of joy I have not felt since I we parted.” Ernest wrote truly. In solitude, his more, youthful feelings had returned, nnd it was with an interest he Ifctd long ceased to cherish for the common events of life, that lie looked for Walter’s answer. It came at last, and Ernest read as follows: “ Thanks, a thousand thanks, dear Ernest, i for your kind invitation ; it would indeed bring j back the past, to be with you again—but it j may not be. The poir have but few of the ! pleasures of this world, and rny destiny shuts J me out even from these. I must remain here I and toil in solitude—but do not think ine in j sensible of your goodness because I am forced |to decline its offers; believe me, \ our affection : is among inj dearest consolations, and you j can never know how precious 1 hold it, till, j like me, you have only one or two to love ! you. You express an interest in my pros jpccts; alas! Ernest, there is little in the fu j ture that promises well for me. My writings | are sufficiently profitable to prevent our suf- I (bring, but I no longer work with the zeal of my past efforts. Now, exertion is painful, and I turn, almost with loathing from the veryi lines which are the sole support of my daily; existence. Do not deem me ungrateful, Gor- | don, because I speak often of my sorrows ; they have, alas! been more familiar to me than I joy. I have but one real pleasure on earth, ; and that is the consciousness of giving com fort to my mothcrand sister. For them I live,; mid perhaps tiieir affection is the dearer, be- j cause, with the exception of yours, I have pro ved it to be the only love which changeth not. Do you remember, Ernest, how often in our boyish anticipations, I used to picture a man- ] hood bright with honor and glorious with re nown ? How confident I once was, in mv powers; how soaring was the ambition which urged me to win celebrity! Those hopes have vanished. I find that in trusting to rny own intellect, I leaneJ on a broken reed, ami that in sighing for fame, 1 pined for that which can only lie gained by pa ting with happiness.— I am wiser, or at least humbler, than I then was ; for nothing produces in us humility so soon, as the shadowing of our proudest and brightest hopes. But I will not weary you, my friend, by dwelling longer on my misfor tunes ; their recital can avail nothing. Will you not write to me, Ernest ? Let me real ize one of my early dreams, in proving the truth of your friendship. Through years of silence and separation, I have never doubted it, and it would be painful indeed to find it vain at last.” “ Poor Walter!” murmured Ernest, as be finished those mournful lines : “ he has indeed known many sorrows, but he has escaped the! haughty scoru whose blight is now upon me !” Ernest did not suspect that the disappoint ment, which had withered some of the better feelings of his heart, was even then clouding the sunshine of his friend, and stealing away the beauty of his life. He dreamed not that his sadness was us nothing, compared to the wild, unmitigated despair of a being like Wal ter. Ernest had many resources ; —wealth gave him power ; and change had brought him calmness. But the poet was poor his sufferings had been increased by silence and loneliness ; there was no excitement to draw his thoughts from the hour which lmd sealed his misery in revealing the hopelessness of his early passion. He had worshipped too long at that forbidden shrine, to kneel before ano ther. Tlie incentive to exertion was gone with the faithless dream in which he had gar nered up the hopes of his life. The poet was oftoo gentle, too loving a nature, to find sup. port in the pri<se which had proved a solace to Gordon. He could not, like him, repay the scorn of the one, on the many ; and while Ernest smiled in haughty bitterness, Walter w apt in secret sorrow. CHAPTER 11. • Hie sorrows were in secret kept, Their strength was never seen; And those around him did not dream How wretched he had been! It was a sweet summer night, when the brother and sister gazed together on the quiet and religious beauty of the far off stars. The poet’s brow w’as pale with deep and troubled thought, and in tlie uncertain light, his eyes emitted a strange brightness from their dark, passionate depths. Ilis smile too, was sad and beautiful as the moonlight. Lucy looked at him in silence,as, wrapt in the mournful reverie which was now a common mood with him, he gazed on the orbs wandering above them. Tears filled the sister’s eyes as she marked the | unconscious absorptien, and witnessed the gloom which so often cast its shadows over : Waller’s spirit. “ I have not told you, Lucy, that I shall be obliged soon to go to London,” said Waller, at ; last ; speaking as if w ith an effort. “ The publisher sayß my presence will be necessary in superintending my furthcoming work, and ; though dread the very thought, 1 must go.” “ I can scarcely regret tlie necessity, dear i Walter,” said his sister, “ for 1 think the change of scene and exercise will improve both your ; j health and spirits." “ I cannot bear tlie idea of mingling again in tlie crowd,” lie said ; “tlie very air of Lon don make** me gloomy, ond 1 feel doubly deso- Inie iii a tlu-o ig w lit re so iiiuiiy are happy, I ; w ish Ernest would go with me." THE SOUTHERN POST. “Can you notask him?” inquired Lucy calmly; but the mention of his name, whose sound to her was now an abiding sorrow, called up a sudden paleness on her cheek. “ I will write to him,” continued Walter; “ he has so many friends in London, it can bat be a pleasure for him to go there. It is the wretched only who shun t/ie multitude!” “ And why should you be so wretched, Walter ?” asked Lucy, almost reproachfully. “ You have blessings even yet —and is it no consolation to remember you are tlie stay and comfort of our dear mother ?” “ Yes, Lucy, that consolation is the sole comfort of my life. As for my blessings— where are they ? Is it a blessing to toil unre quited and in solitude ? Is it a blessing to see you suffering from this harsh climate, without the power to find you a gentler one ? If these are blessings, Lucy, I am blessed indeed !” •“ You must not think of me, dearest,” slie answered. “ Believe me, the suffering of sick ness can never give the pain 1 feel at your re pining in bitterness.” “ Not in bitterness, my sister, but in sorrow and hopelessness,” said Waliar. “ But it is too cold for you here, dearest,” he added, after a moment's pause. “ Retire to rest, Lucy— and may your dreams be happy !” “ Will you not go too, Walter ?” “ My dreams are not bright enough to tempt me,” he answered, with his strange, sad smile. “ I will watch with the stars a little longer,” and Lucy left him. Walter looked after her sorrowfully, and lie thought her slight figure seemed wasted, even since he last observed it. Lucy sat long at her window, wrapt in si lent, cheerless meditation ; and when at length she retired, she perceived through the dimness of the night, that her brother was still at liis station. The next morning Walter wrote to Ernest asking him to accompany him to the metropo- I is. “ 1 dread the prospect,” he said, “but my going is necessary, and 1 would not neglect any thing which may add to the comfort of those dependant on me. Now, more than ever, I am bound to make every exertion—for anew affliction is approaching, and death is written on the brow of one, nearest and dearest. It is not yet too late to save her, and if my next work prove popular and profitable, I shall seek her health in a foreign land. Poor Lucy ! she is sensible of her clanger, even while she attempts to conceal it; but her confession is not needed to reveal the decay I can trace so surelv on the cheek and in the eve!” Ernest readily consented to accompany his friend, but he little suspected their mutual dis like to London arose from the same cause. Walter’s letter awoke new feelings in Ernest, and as he read of Lucy’s danger, her sweet face came back to him, as from a dream. lie remembered, and without vanity, the one short interview, which had betrayed to him her heart’s secret, and he asked himself if he had done wisely in coldly passing hv such love. Ernest’s first love was very like most men’s —it was more a memory than a reality—for, it was not proof against neglect nnd new asso ciations. His devotion to Lady Alice had been so scorned and repulsed, that it had given place to a feeling of dislike; and pride, more than affection, induced him to avoid tlie possi bility of meeting her. With much true and deep feeling, he mingled a vein of worldliness, which perhaj s did more than any thing else towards healing the wounds of his bosom. “Can I not aid Walter in restoring his sis ter ?” he thought. “ I have wealth, and it is all he needs. She, perhaps, can love me, even now; and I would willingly show the world, that there are others as worthy of adoration as the Countess of Lysle!” How different the emotion that prompted the proud, yet hiimble adoration of Waiter! With a devotedness, which for years had been liis blessing, he still treasured up one lovely face; and Alice knew not the heart she tram pled on when she so haughtily rejected the poet’s love ! Scarce a week had passed, ere another was added to the circle of the poet’s home. The next day the friends were to journey to thecity —and now Ernest and Lucy were again to gether. A single glance at her altered and placid face, told Gordon she was doomed; and he saw, that in anticipating her restoration his friend was hoping against hope. Walter was writing in his room, and Lucy wandered with Ernest in the soft moonlight. They spoke of her brother, his hopes, his fears and the quiet days of their early intercourse. Gordon vaguely alluded to his own disappoint ments; but flying from the past, he lingered over the present. At length all was forgotten and lost but the wholly enchantment of that joyous moment —and in the low tone of in tense feeling, he uttered the sweetest words that ever fell on Lucy’s ear. “I am changed. Lucy,” he continued, “from the enthusiastic being you and Walter once knew; and perhaps I have lost all claim to your forgiveness and generosity; but, trust me, you will find no ie, even among the happiet and most devoted of your suitors, who can hold you dearer in his heart of hearts, than 1 do ! Speak to me my beloved—tell me, Lucy ! that you can love me, even yet!” Lucy was silent, but Gordon watched her varying color, and he required no other an swer. In that hour was centered the blessed ness of all h;r life, and even Ernest thought not of her danger as he gazed on the dark lustre of her lambent eyes, which, like her faith ful heart, reflected back his image. Alas! why is it, that love and death so often meet on earth ? “ We shall return in a few days,” said Wal ter, as they siparate l at night, “ and Ernest will come back with me, unless the attractions of London prove too strong for him.” “That were scarcely possible now,” said Gordon, with a glance at Lucy, which sent the eloquent flush to her very forehead, and made her visions of the night happier than they had ever been. (To be Continued.) woman’s tempeb. One of the most important female qualities is sweetness of temper. Heaven did not give i to woman insinuation and persuution, in order ! to be surly; it did not give them a sweet voice, in order to be employed in scolding. From the American Museum. MINIATURE SKETCHES. riEFERF.NCI FOR FOREIGN PRODUCTIONS* It wculd seem that some men lay aside their judgments at times, (if indeed they have any) and choose among objects presented for the supply oftlieir physical, mental, and even mor al and religious wants, not by the scale of re lative value, but that of prejudice. In this respect how frequently are men lound acting the part of children. To say nothing con cerning the principle taught in Holy Writ concerning the reception of the word of the prophet, “in his own country,” in view of sermons and lectures ; it is a sourer, at once of pain and disgust, to witness the conduct of ■ many. Present them with a piece of cloth j or other article ofphys cal labor, of/tomc-maß ufacture, and announce the fact, and in vain do you attempt to convince them of its true quality and value. Offer such individuals any i product of mental labor claming their own city |or neighborhood for its place of origin, and ■ how quickly do you hear them arguing its in feriority to foreign works which, it maybe, they never saw. Now s tch grown children remind one ever forcibly of the peculiar fan jcies of infancy. Often have l seen rustic jchldren meet their parents returning with j their wagons from some distant mart, and re jeeive at their han Is, as “ broady-cakes,''’ tlie | dry and soiled buiscuits which were baked in ; tiieir domestic ovens, and watched them feast : ing with delight. And yet such children do not act a more puerile or irrational pail than thousands of Americans of full stature and manhood’s years. J. E. S. FEMALE INTKEPIDITV. During the fire on Saturday night last, the occupants of one of the buildings in Rose Alley, in the hustle and confusion of saving their little effects from the devouring element, and after being driven out by the flames, des \ covered that one of their children, a boy about four years old remained yet asleep in the up per part of the house—the mother after hear i ing of the situation of her child rushed through j the flames and seized her sleeping boy, and no I sooner had she gained the object for which she ; was willing to risk her life, than it was discov ered that all means of escape were cut off", | save that of leaping from the second story win dow with her child, which without a moment’s hesitation was done, without any material in jury to herself or her child. Alb. Evening Journal. IRON HOUSE. The Glasgow Chronicle has noticed an ele gant plan of a sea coast cottage of iron hung up in the Tontine Coffee room, Glasgow. The plan referred to seems to have six rooms, kitchen and laundry, and other conveniences, for the small sum of £250, or if a double Douse fourteen rooms, 500. This is not half the price of a common house with similar ac commodation, and can be ready in two months. ANOTHER YANKEE NOTION. The Bangor Whig says an ingenious Me chanic of that city is constructing a beautiful carriage to be propelled without horses, steam or magnetism, but solely by the weight of the passenger, applied to treadles. FOR MARRIED PEOPLE. If married couples would only remember these threesimple words—“ Bear and forbear,” and put th# maxim into practice, they would add much to their happiness in some instances. “FORCE OF HABIT.” A toper in New Orleans taking a check to a bank to be cashed, was asked by the teller, how he would have it ?’ he replied instantly, ‘ cold, if you please, and without sugar.’ ” SIMPLICITY. A countryman giving evidence in court, was asked by the counsel if he was born in j wedlock? No, sir, answered the man, 1 was born iii Devonshire. Diogenes being asked why it was that phi losophers sought the society of the rich, much more than the latter sought theirs, replied— “ Because philosophers know what they want, and the others do not.” I saw’ a pale mourner stand bending over the tomb, and his tears fell fast and often. As lie raised his humid eyes to heaven, he cried, “My brother! —oh! my brother!" A sage passed that way, and said, “ For whom dost thou mourn ?” “ One,” replied he, “ whom I did not suffi ciently love while living; but whose inestima ble worth I now feel.’’ “ What wouldst thou do, if he were restord to thee ?” The mourner replied that he would never offend him by an unkind word, but would take every . occasion to show his friendship, if he could but come back to his fond embrace. “ Then waste not thy time in useless grief,” said the sage ; “ but if thou hast friends, go and cherish the living remembering that they will, one day, be dead also.” A king having inquired of one of his cour tiers why he always spoke well of another, who was always calumniating him, “ Be not aston ished, sire,” he replied, “ we are both liars.” The Daiien Herald of the 14th inst., in i apologising to its readers for the omission of several articles, in consequence of the absence !of one of its compositors, who it says is on a periodical spree, concludes thus: “We wish Brandreth or Peters, would manufacture some pills to keep printer's sober. A printer should never get “ shot in tlie neck,” —it unnerves his lO”’s—squabbles his page— hatters his Ts —and often he finds his form in a gutter, in such a filthy condition that tlie devil himself —(printer’s devil, g<-ntle reader, ' we mean,) turns swsy in disgust." O II I G I N AL. For die Southern Post. A DREAM OF THE PAST. BY JULIET. Never before did a dream so sweet Throw a delight in my waking hours ; Never again shall my weary feet Enter the shade of such charmed bowers! Never before did the summer skies Bend with such beauty o’er vale and stream— Never again shall tiieir rainbow dyes So like the glory of Eden seem ! Never before was n>y heart so light— Never again can it feel so gay ! Gone is its joy with that vision bright— Vanished was hoj>e when it faded away. Never before did this ardent soul Worship so fondly at Love’s pure shrine; Never again can his strong control Cease in the heart that at first was thine. Never before did a ray so brief Brighten my path with its lovely spell i Never again shall it lose the grief Shading it o’er at our sad Farewell! Philadelphia, May 9th, 1933. For the Southern Post. TIIE DAYS OF POESY. Past are the days of Poesy—Now no more The gentle Shepherd seeks the murm’ring rill, When the bright moonlight sparkles on the w ave. To pour his plaint upon the ear of nightt No whisp’ring loves float on the zephyr’s wing. No oaten pipes in dulcet notes resound Along the windings of tlie peaceful vale. Yet are our skies as bright—our streams as sinoothe As when of old, the pastoral song was tuned. The merry wood-lark sings as blithely still, As tenderly the mind steals thro’ the grove, As free, as pure—No! not as pure our tho’ts : The flattering tale we breathe in beauty's ear, The serenade in summer’s midnight hour, That o’er the sleeping maiden’s half-closed sense, Falls like the whisp’rings of a heavenly choir, Come not from truth, “ enthroned in the heart.” Simplicity, the soul of inspiration, fled, Leaves nature withering ’neath the hand of art. We pay to passion what is uue to love! HENRY. South Carolina. May, 1839. For the Southern Post. ETOWAH CAVERN. “ Give us, ye powers, the wondrous scenes to show, Conceal’d in darkness, in the depths below.” All limestone countries abound with caves, or lime sinks, as they are called by the natives, of greater or less magnitude; and perhaps no where will they be found more numerous than in that part of Georgia which embraces the section of country lately in the oc cupancy of the Cherokee Indians. There is not a mile square, where it is most strongly impregnated with lime, on which will not be seen one or more of these sinks ; and it is said, tnough I apprehend it rarely happens, that at times a "traveller,” in wending his way over a smooth and level country, unconscious of the “ sandy foundation” on which he rests, is precipitated, man and horse, by the sudden " evanning” of the earth beneath ! him, several feet, and sometimes to a depth from which ;he cannot extricate himself. Many there are, howev er, of a regular and easy descent, and not so deep as to contain water in a dry season of tlie year, whilst oth ers sink abruptly to a depth which has never been as certained; and the weary and benighted land-hunter, in the early settling of the country, before the roads were plainly marked out, has taken his chance with his knapsack, in the woods, among the ravenous beasts of the forest, sooner than prosecute his journey over a “land” presenting such awful chasms to engulf them But as I am in no danger of falling into such a dilem ma, I shall leave those comparatively insignificant ones to their especial care, and proceed to give a brief de scription of the one at the head of this article. I will first, however, take the occasion to observe, that although there are doubtless many caverns in the United States of greater extent, and perhaps magnifi cence, yet there are others comparatively insignificant, which have become the w-onder of the world around them, and are ranked among the greatest natural cu riosities of the States in which they are found; and had this been located somewhere to the “far North,” I would venture the assertion, that there are native Georgians, now ignorant of its existence, who would, ere this have penetrated and explored every room which it contains, with utter amazemeut and de light. This Cavern is situated in Cass county, about five miles southwest of Cassville, and one mile north of the Etowah river, from which circumstance it derives its name. The circumjacent country is, as in most in stances of caves of any extent, broken and mountain ous ; and the cavern itself opens on the east side of a small mountain, about two hundred feet from its base; but the ascent to its mouth is by no means difficult.— On arriving at the aperture we found our entrance into the cavern to be through an arch of about fifteen feet in heighth, and perhapv as many in width, overhung with cragged rocks partly covered with vines and bri ars. We now prepared our torches for a descent.— After having penetrated into the mountain perhaps three hundred feet, by an angle of about 30 degrecs i rendered difficult, if not dangerous, from the number of j large stones in our way, which, by some convulsion of nature, had been detached from above, we found our selves in a large and capacious chamber, with a smooth, level and firm floor. Here, in this habitation of soli tude, cold, dark and silent—like the chambers of death —we paused to contemplate the gloominess of the ca vern, and to enjoy those sensations, which on a first visit to such mansions of eternal darkness, our situation could not fail to awaken. 1 have been accustomed to sublime scenery—l have stood enraptured and amazed on the tops of some of our highest mountains, and gazing with inexpressible delight on the beautiful and magnificent landscapes which nature had strewed around me in the vast dis tance, with a prodigal hand, my feelings were awaken ed to a lively sense of the goodness, greatness and mag nificence of an All-creative Power; and involuntarily, I was constrained to bow in reverence of its splendid grandeur. But the sensations which I felt, wlien for the first time, I found myself in this gloomy “ world within a world,” and shrouded from the world without by darkness tan gible and impenetrable, no language can describe. I felt my heart new-opened opened within me, and could almost exclaim with the Poet, “ Vain pomp and glory of the world. I hate ye.” How different in character and attributes is the God who reigns in these awful caverns, from that God whom we should delight to contemplate from the mountain’s ; top! There, he is a God of Light, of Truth and of! Greatness, but here, a God of terrific Power, Wrath , and Vengeance. While we ahould there be constrain-1 ed to worship him, from Love and Gratitude, we would ! here approach his gloomy Throne with Fear and Trem bling. I was forcibly reminded of that passage of Ho ly Writ which describes the sinner in the last day, as calling upon tlie rocks and mountains to hide him from 'he presence of a tin-avenging God We now built a large fire in the centre of this ebam* *“ r with some pine knots, which olhers no doubt h.H carried theie for the same purpose, to dissipate ,h„ gloomy darkness which surrounded us, and to afford ' ght by which we could examine more minutely such objects as presented themselves. We found ourselv in an immense vaulted area, covered with one soln arch of rock, perhaps one hundred feet high, and to all appearances entire; its diameter was from 60 to 7o feet, and its perpendicular walls seemed to enclose in on all sides, save the one through which we had *** tered, where the aperture had now expanded to abom 40 feet In this room our Indian guide informed us the Indians were accustomed to celebrate their green cor and other national festivals. From this chamber there’ is but one avenue leading further into the cavern and through it we had to pass for some distance on our hanus and knees, when we again found space enousl. to proceed erect, and ascending a steep hill by an av enue 100 feet in length and from '0 to 30 in width, we entered another chamber of almost inconceivable gran- We had now penetrated into the very bowels of the mountain, and perceived avenues leading from this chamber in various directions, and into contiguous rooms of greater or less dimensions. Here it may be ! pro , pe ! r IO u,lSorvc ’ li,at !li e great extent of the cavern and the number of its spacious rooms and chambers render it difficult, if not impossible, to describe The' mountain is doubtless hollow throughout, but cut up | and d,vided b r Partitions, into chambers and rooma of greater or less extent; all, allowing for their different dimensions, bearing some considerable resemblance to each other, and no one who has explored it,altho’some suppose they have visited £0 or 40 rooms, pretend to have found the extent of it, or to know the number of rooms and chambers which it contains. I shall endeavor to give a feint description of the hot room, so called from the number of those birds which inhabit it, and will also mention such curiosities as I found in others, worthy of notice. This chamber is the most extensive which the cavern contains. It is also enclosed by an imniei.se and finely arched roof, supported by pillars and columns compo sed entirely of stalactites of lime, or as appearances would seem to suggest, of petrified water, the result of its dripping for a long series of ages. Some of these pending from above have not united with those ascend ing from the floor; and their extremities, not yet petri fied, are of the consistence of lime mortar. They are of various and elegant shapes; some are as regular and uniform as the columns of art, whilst others bear a stri king resemblance to animated nature. One in parti cular reminded me forcibly of the unwieldy bulk of the ele pliant. They are generally hard and firm, and when not smoked by the light of the torch, so glittering as almost to dazzle the sight. The roof is overspread with ; a thousand icicles and spars, white as shining marble. This chamber, when I first visited it, presented an appearance of splendor far different from what it now exhibits, being comparatively unsullied by the mark of ■ torches, or by the hands of intruders. The sides were entirely invested with a dazzling incrustation as white as snow, and the glare of splendor and beauty which resulted from an illumination by torches and the reflec tion from the differently shaped objects, may be better conceived than described. In one of the rooms we approached the brink of an awful precipice, its depth we had no means of ascertaining; but I have nodoubt that from it opeued many rooms in the deep abyss be low. In another, with some difficulty, we reached a pure and delightful pool of water, which slaked our thirst, entered the fissure of a rock, and was seen no more. j Thus we passed onward from one chamber to ano | thcr, in this world of solitude, sometimes admiring the .beauties of a single column of spars or stalactites, and j then wondering at the magnificence of a large chain j her, till we arrived by a long and narrow alley, to the opposite side of the mountain; and here we found a small opening, but too steep and narrow to aflbrd us an egress, aud we turned to retrace our steps. On re | turning, when we had arrived at one of the largest | chambers, one of our party fired off a pistol. The re ! port, like the cannon's roar, was truly deafening, and j with a heavy rumbling noisc.it reverberated and echo ;<d through one room after another, till it died away in j the distance. It seemed like the “ moanings of spirits.” j At length, after an absence of about four hours, . reached the mouth of the cavern, much fatigued. Some of the party almost fainted ou inhaling the vapid atmos phere, after having so long breathed the pure air, occa sioned by the nitre of the cave. H. LETTERS FROM TIIE WEST INDIES-No. 12. RARBA D O S , Bridgetown, Eartados, March, 1839. To the Editor of the Southern Post: Doar Sir—After leaving the harbor of St. Pierre wa ! made the best of our way for this Island, taking advan | tage of a favorable breeze which promised us a short passage. In this, however, we were disappointed— ! and for two days were beating through the passage be tween Martinico and St. Lucia, gaining but little in the day and less at night, when more caution was ne cessary in approaching the land—this gave us frequent and near views of the Diamond Rock, a remarkable isolated cone projecting out of the ocean something more than a mile from the southwestern point of Mar tinico, its base covering not more than two acres, and rising four hundred and seventy-feet above the level of the sea. It is said to have been fortified by the English during the general war of Europe, so. the purpose of commanding the passage ; they having possession of the opposite Island of St. Lucia. The carrying of their heavy cannon up so abrupt a precipice was a very dif ficult undertaking, but accomplished with great skill, by first ascending the rock and drilling into its sum mit by which heavy cables were made fast, thence to their ship—the cannon were suspended to these cables and drawn up by the great power of the tackle. During the night of the second day after leaving Mar tinico a favorable breeze carried us forward on our course, and on the morning of the 14th, we found our selves within sight of this port, where we dropped our anchor about 10 o’clock. On approaching this Island from the sea, its features at once strike us as peculiar, and differs from all other of the West Indies. You may perceive by an exam ination of the map, that it lays out of the general range of the others of the Windward group, and is nearly one hundred miles to the Eastward, while all the others have the general appearance of being the peaks of a range of high mountains projecting out of the ocean. This Island is a plain about twenty-one miles in length, and fourteen or fifteen in breadth, based on a soft lime stone rock, indented as I afterwards found, in many places with what we call in the Southern States, iimt •ink*. The soil on the highest ground being a chalky marl, on the lower spots a dark brown, and near the sea sandy, the highest lands, I should think, not mote than one thousand feet abovo the lovel of the sea, and rising from the beach by regular *teppt» or terraces ri sing a few feet at each ascent, at considerable inter vals. The cane, though we found it large, does not have as rich green vegetation as that of St. Croix, nor do the estates look so beautiful, for the want of that neatness and care so beautifully conspicuous in the landscapes of the Danish Islands, where all the build ings are neady painted or whitewashed once every year. The climate of Burhudoe does not materially differ from the other tropical Islands, though farther South, (13 s 10’ N. lat. 53“ W. long.) the temperature «* indi cated by the thermometer, does not differ from that of St. Croit. In tlie Commercial Kooms yesterday it va ried between 7»* and SO® The moel level spot* * r *